


Nutshell

by wordsliketeeth



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Study, Depression, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Gen, Heavy Angst, Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:53:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25865452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsliketeeth/pseuds/wordsliketeeth
Summary: He doesn't believe in recovery; he puts his faith in systematic policing and methodical thinking, and he would rather sleep on these cold streets than face what burned his bridges getting here. At least this way he can make himself believe that he still has some semblance of control.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Nutshell

Kiyoshi is falling down the rabbit hole but this is no fanciful tale about magic mushroom or hookah-smoking caterpillars. It's surreal enough that he can still make-believe, however—that he can persuade himself that he isn't sliding into a downward spiral. Albeit, it takes a little more convincing these days—and yet, it isn't enough to keep himself from decorating the hole he's fallen into like a grave. He has all of the stones in place and he's beginning to dance with the creeping shadow of mortality. He's been biting down on the absinthian taste of defeat for months, bitter and harsh like wormwood.

Kiyoshi struggles with a tourniquet, discolored from years of use and worn around its edges. It hasn't always belonged to him but he's long forgotten where it came from. He thinks it likely that he picked up from one of the alleys he now occupies more often than not. They're not an ideal place to call home, and it's a dangerous way to live, but they're not a bad place to go to when you're running from possible discovery.

He curses when the needle slips in his grip and pierces his skin. It's not the pain that draws forth the reaction but the feeling that imbues him with fear when the syringe nearly falls to the ground. He can't recall when his hands started trembling this badly, when the air started to hum with static, or when his shirt started sticking to his skin like a wet blanket. He only remembers the way he felt when she drew him in beneath the moonlight. Things were simpler then, he thinks.

Kiyoshi exhales a sigh that sounds like contentment as a rush of euphoria and adrenaline slides through his veins. The complacency on his lips doesn't match the unhappiness in his heart, however. Serenity is just a camouflage for what resembles the despair and the hopelessness that he feels day in and day out; what contaminates his soul.

His thumb slides off of the plunger and his head falls back against the dirty stone digging in against his back. The barrel is empty but the hub is stained with the faintest trace of his blood, once untainted but now as polluted as the city air that burns through his lungs. He used to have the strength to fight. He used to have stamina and soundness and a clean bill of health. Now he has nothing—nothing to call his own, nowhere to go. He only knows instability and sadness and pain—so much fucking _pain_.

He used to be someone. He used to have hopes and dreams. He used to _care_. But opportunity knocked once and when he didn't answer, the door slammed shut. It was as if he couldn't find his way again after that one pivotal moment. The directions on his timeline got crossed and he took a path he couldn't find his way back from. Where it was warm, he now only knows what it means to be cold, truly fucking cold. The push and pull have worn him out. He started at the top but he fell so fast that he's still reeling from the drop. The comforts of silence have turned harrowing and so unbearably lonely that Kiyoshi has taken to spending his nights with strangers just to stir the stillness.

He finally plucks the needle out of his arm and tucks it into the depths of his tattered sweatshirt. He hopes that maybe tonight he'll remember to dispose of it properly. But he knows that if he's being honest with himself, tonight is as distant as the moon and the wind will carry away the mental note before he disappears beneath the stars.

Kiyoshi curls his hands into fists around the stained fabric of his baggy jeans. He wasn't always this thin, this haggard, and pale. He tries to remember when he last ate something, what that something was, but it fades into the haze of a distant memory he can't reach. He shivers and tries to tell himself that he isn't broken, that he doesn't need to be fixed. He feels something wet slide down his cheeks, knows that he's crying, but he refuses to acknowledge his tears. Running from his problems has always been easier than catching up to them, and he's been told that once you're a slave to the game, you're in it forever.

Well, if he's going to play the game then there are rules he has to break.

He doesn't believe in recovery; he puts his faith in systematic policing and methodical thinking, and he would rather sleep on these cold streets than face what burned his bridges getting here. At least this way he can make himself believe that he still has some semblance of control.

Kiyoshi ties the tourniquet around his wrist like a bracelet, an accessory that's been his only companion and enemy for far too long. He stumbles to his feet and hugs close to the piss-stained wall until he finds his way out into the resplendent light that burns his eyes. He enjoys the warmth but he hates the promise. He shields his eyes in an attempt to block out the sun and takes comfort in the cracked concrete beneath his worn sneakers.

A teenage girl passes by him and he knows that he's seen her before, and often. He frowns but makes another mental note: to ask for her name the next time he sees her. Though, he knows he'll likely forget this, too.

She walks with a limp and wears a map of bruises on the right side of her face in the shape of downtown Tokyo. Somehow he knows that she's been raped again and that no matter how many times she bathes, the marks won't leave her skin. He also knows that even if he could think of something to say, his words would mean nothing to her; that she wouldn't leave the bastard that exploits her, that throws her out into the wild night after night for a dollar or two.

He wants to help but he doesn't know how or where he'd even start to try. He isn't even capable of helping himself. He closes his eyes and fights the urge to climb up the highest building and throw himself off its edge. Despite his will to resist, he thinks that perhaps the fall would free him from his heavy chains. And what he would give to be a free man again.

He thinks he'll talk to the angels when he's alone.

A familiar face comes into his line of sight and Kiyoshi nearly trips over a misstep. He's torn between slinking down the nearest alley to bury himself in heaps of trash and running in the opposite direction, toward the sun and the city skyline. He thinks to hide his face, at the very least, but he can't get his limbs to listen to his brain. He feels frozen, paralyzed, rooted to the very ground he's standing on. A siren blares in the distance and he wants, more than anything, to wake up and find that this has all been a figment of his imagination.

But if he's been asleep this whole time, then why is he so fucking exhausted? No, he's been trading sleep for junk in his veins and drinks in a bar.

Something crunches beneath the pair of new white sneakers in front of him and Kiyoshi starts at the sound. He lifts his head and stares into the disappointed gaze of an old friend, and that just might hurt more than the hunger crawling around in his guts.

Hyūga reaches out to touch Kiyoshi's bruised cheek but he draws his hand away as if he's been burned before he can make contact. Kiyoshi doesn't blame him. He must be a real eyesore to Hyūga now.

He sees Hyūga's lips move, framed on his name and a question he's been asking himself for months, maybe even years.

Kiyoshi has never viewed the city streets this closely before. He's never heard Hyūga's voice so clearly or felt his heart beat this violently. He doesn't think he's ever felt pain like this before, but if he's sure about anything, it's that he's never been this broken.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
